She Deserves It
by Truths and Endgames
Summary: She was gone, and he was broken. How could he have chosen someone else? It made no sense - she was supposed to be his, and he was supposed to be hers. The least he could do for her was make the most important thing in his life a tribute to her. After all, she deserves it. Tiva. AU after Somalia.
1. She Deserves It

**_AN: This is my first fanfiction, so please take it easy on me. This will be a multi-chapter story, so just stick with me. Please review. I really want to know how I am doing._**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS._**

_1 week ago_

She sits at the bar, nursing a scotch, waiting for the bachelorette party she is crashing to appear. The metallic bandage dress shows off her…assets, and no man in the bar can peel their eyes from her. She pays no heed.

_3 months ago_

"Couldn't live without you, I guess," he blurts.

Shock, then grief. She doesn't deserve this, never deserved this.

(Why is he here? That answer doesn't cut it; it only left her more confused.)

When they get home, she supposes that he took it back. At least, when she sees the buxom blonde waiting at his desk, she supposes he is taking those unintentional words back.

(It is fitting. She doesn't deserve him, never deserved him.)

"Ziva, this is Sarah. Sarah, Ziva."

With a quick once-over, the blonde crinkles her nose in a look of disgust.

"Ewwwww, you're all dirty. Why are you both sweaty, and dirty, and gross?"

Maybe it's the fact that Somalia put her into a chronic state of shock, she doesn't respond. At least, not how his ninja would respond.

(But he guesses that his ninja was gone the moment that plane took off from Israel without her.)

_2 months ago_

Shaking with adrenaline from another bout of sparring in the NCIS gym, she turns to retrieve her towel and bottle. Although she is pleased at beating him, it was easier than usual. Something's on his mind. She hears something from behind her.

"When I met you, I was broken. I had just lost a partner, and you rescued me from that. You stuck with me through the hard times, when all I felt was grief and pain. You put up with my need for vengeance and my need to see that terrorist dead. And slowly, I healed with you helping me all the way. When I was in Somalia, all I could think was, _if I get out of here, I will complete number 26_. Tell her. And I did. I told you I love you as soon as I got back from that place. And it's so true. I would give you the world if I could, but it wouldn't fit in your apartment, so I hope this ring will suffice. Sarah, will you marry me?"

Her breath catches. She thought _maybe, just maybe_ he was talking about her. Maybe the partner was Kate, the terrorist Ari. But it's not meant to be. And it's fitting.

(She doesn't deserve love, never deserved love.)

"So, what do you think, Ziva? Will she like it?"

She turns, offers him a heartbroken (heartbreaking?) smile. Somalia gave her time to think. Too much.

"She'll love it."

_6 weeks ago_

"Have you told her yet?"

She has to know, needs to know, _dies to know. _Maybe he changed his mind, picked her instead.

(In her heart, she says no. She doesn't deserve a second chance, never deserved a second chance.)

"No, I was going to do it tonight. Well, as soon as I get out of here."

He smiles, unknowingly crushes her.

"Go then," she offers, not knowing how else to hide the lump in her throat, the horrible pressure in her chest. "Go. Go now."

When he leaves, she lets one tear fall.

(_No_, she thinks. I don't deserve him. She does, always will.)

For, in the time since they got back, Sarah revealed herself to be completely different. Sweet, kind, caring- even to Ziva once Tony told her about Somalia.

The next day, he walks in, a grin threatening to overtake his face.

She smiles, but inside she cracks.

_1 week ago_

The drunken partiers come stumbling into the fifth stop on the list of clubs. She waits.

Eventually, the fiancée spots the gorgeous, suspiciously familiar brunette at the bar. She walks over.

"Ziva?"

She forces herself to turn. This is, after all, the reason she is at the bar.

"Sarah. I needed to talk to you."

The fiancée sits down, expression one of expectance.

(She can't do this. She can't talk to the person he will spend the rest of his life with.)

"I just wanted to tell you- no, ask you- to take care of Tony. He is a great guy, as good as they come. Watch his movies, give him a shoulder to cry on when he grieves, grow old with him. Love him as I never had the chance to do. I needed to tell you this. I won't see you again.

She finds that forcing this out of her mouth is the hardest thing she has ever done. Saying she will never see Sarah again is equivalent to saying that she will never see Tony again. That breaks her inside. But no, she is already broken.

"Wait. What are you saying? You have to come to the wedding."

She almost takes it all back. But then, she thinks of her life, having to see him grow with her, stay with her, _love her_, and she continues.

"No. It will be too hard for me, and, anyways, it is your day. You will be a beautiful bride. I wish you the best of luck in life. Just please, make sure he is happy."

She gets up and walks away without a backward glance, leaving a dumbstruck blonde behind her.

_1 day ago_

She has been avoiding him all week, only talking to him when it concerns a case. He finds this behavior odd, but is too caught up in preparations for the wedding to say anything. When he looks up at the office for the last time as a single man, he sees her looking at him strangely. He makes nothing of it, and walks away.

She looks down, hoping no one will notice the tears in her lashes.

"Goodbye, Tony."

_Today_

He is getting married. He doesn't see her.

(But she has to be here. No way would she leave him on his big day.)

His bride walks down the aisle, and all he has eyes for is the empty seat between Gibbs and McGoo where she should be.

He stops the wedding. Delays it for hours.

(Eventually he has to continue, but he maintains it. _She is coming_.)

He doesn't know that while he was promising forever to the ivory-clad blonde, she was working with another team on another case. That she ran to disarm the bomb inside of the apartment complex. That, after making sure everyone was out, she sat down near the bomb, and waited.

That she thinks of him while he thinks of her.

That, when she dies, he is saying those fateful words to another.

(When he hears the news at the reception, he storms out in tears, leaving a very confused, very hurt blonde alone in the bridal suite on the wedding night. He skips the honeymoon.)

That the blonde finds him nursing a scotch on the floor of _her_ apartment. He doesn't know how she got there. Ziva didn't trust many people.

That she forgives him, and they have a happy (on her end), fake (on his end) marriage.

That, when their child is born, she has chocolate eyes and brown curls, which confuses both of them to no end.

Her name is Ziva David Dinozzo.

(It is very much so against her mother's wishes. Her father doesn't care, because Ziva deserves it.)


	2. The Old Ziva

**AN: I decided to continue this story, even though it was intended as a one-shot. I have an idea to make this a multi-chapter fic, and this was the first part of that, so I needed to publish it. I hope you like it! Thanks to my beta, burningbridges97. Please read and review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS.**

The dust enveloped her, escaping the clutches of the album that Ziva had picked up, curious as to what this plain ebony book had in store for her. The thirteen year old gingerly turned the front cover, revealing a multitude of photographs of a brunette woman, looking to be in her twenties. She was _everywhere. _Swathed in an emerald dress, asleep at a desk, talking to a Goth who Ziva recognized as her Aunt Abby.

As she riffled farther into the pages, she came upon more and more pictures of this lady. Someone- whoever had been taking these photos- knew this woman, and knew her very well. It was clear the woman was at ease with the cameraman. Or woman, whichever it may be. The smiles she rarely graced the camera with were easy and caring. The glares, which appeared far more often, showed a fun and playful side, suggesting that she was mock-threatening the photographer and not actually planning to injure the person.

Ziva stumbled onto one example where the woman in question was sleeping- slumbering peacefully on a couch that seemed vaguely familiar to the teenager._That's Dad's couch, _she exclaimed in her mind. The image clicked with the information stored in her brain as she recognized the sofa. It was worn out and raggedy now, but her father insisted upon keeping the relic in his "man cave". It drove her mother insane, but since that was his domain, it stayed. And, as her dad liked to put it, there was no point in messing up another couch, as DiNozzo men were notoriously messy with their beer during ball games.

With another epiphany, she realized who the woman must be. Ziva David- her father's former partner. Her namesake. And the love of her dad's life.

As much as both she and her mother hated to admit it, Daddy DiNozzo was clearly head-over-heels in love with his ex-partner. Although he did love his wife and child, it was a different sort of emotion than the one that shone in his eyes every time the old Ziva was mentioned. He would smile a sad smile- filled with need and sorrow and agony and love- and join in on the reminiscing; however, he would always stop himself as soon as he would let slip too personal of a detail. As if that was for him and him alone, he would quickly move on to another subject, but not before those closest to him caught the hesitation; the longing in his eyes.

Ziva hated seeing her parents suffer through the problem. Her mom loved her dad, but she couldn't just sit around and watch him pine after someone else, so she erased all traces of Ziva from their home. Nevertheless, she couldn't erase her daughter, so that daily reminder of the one person keeping Sarah from Tony was still there. Her dad loved her mom, but he could never fully get over Ziva, keeping him from loving his wife like a husband should. She was a pillar of support when Ziva was in Somalia, but after, when Ziva had really and truly died, she was left alone as her husband wallowed in grief. It caused problems with their marriage, but the two were determined to stay together, and to create a happy home for their daughter.

Said daughter plucked the picture of the sleeping Ziva out of the photo album, and raced downstairs to find her father. She needed to confront her father -ask why she had never seen an image of her namesake, tell him all about the pain he was causing her mother, and then, after the berating was over, move on to begging and pleading for every single detail she could possibly glean about the old Ziva.

* * *

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

A startled Tony jerked his head up from the paperwork he had brought home with him. The calls of his daughter were increasing in volume, signaling the approach of the enthusiastic teenager. He quickly hid his paperwork, a report on a terrorist group in the troubled Middle East. That was no report for a child to see.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

He sat back and waited for the study door to burst open, which it did within a few seconds. Tony was prepared for his daughter to come flying in, bubbling with information about some new topic which had come up at school that day. What he was not prepared for, however, was the index card-sized paper she was holding in her hand to land on the desk in front of him, presenting the image of his partner sleeping peacefully on his trusty old couch.

"Where did you get that?" he inquired, mouth drifting open in pain and shock at the sudden swell of emotion that encompassed him. He remembered taking that picture- hell, he remembered most things he had done with Ziva, to Ziva, for Ziva- but he had forgotten where he had put the object.

"Upstairs, in the attic, in some box that was full of old, dusty stuff. There was a bunch of DVD's and photo albums, but this was the first one I grabbed."

Realization dawned upon him, bringing to his mind the view of a box labeled _Ziva _on the bottom, containing all remnants of his relationship with his ex-partner. Sarah had banished it to the attic once it became clear that she would have to work to save her marriage.

"Oh, I see. And what prompted you to come screaming to my office, holding a picture of Ziva?" Tony asked with a slight grin. For his daughter to be excited enough to actually answer a question for once, something had to be up.

"Well, I figured out that this must have been Ziva- you know, the old Ziva- and I wanted to know why she was up there, why you have so many pictures of her, and what she was like. Also, I had some things to say to you, but they can wait," she replied, taking a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. She would talk to him later about her mother, but for now, the ex-partner took precedence.

"Well, Ziva. That's a long story, sweetheart. I don't know if I'll have time for it. You might want to call your Aunt Abby and ask her. She loved Ziva- she'll probably know a lot more than I ever will," he fibbed, not wanting his daughter- his precious, Ziva-like daughter- to know how much "the old Ziva", as she put it, actually meant to him.

"No, Dad," she argued, fists clenching on the armrests, "I want to hear it from you. The sheer amount of pictures in that album showed that you knew her _very well._"

Tony sighed, leaning back in his chair, and folding his hands over his stomach. "Well, Ziva- you're going to be here for a while. Anyways, I have many more pictures than in just that one album. I have lots of pictures, and videos, and memories with her. She was more than just my partner- she was my friend… my _best _friend. We had each other's six, and that creates a bond that no one but partners can understand."

As Tony sat explaining to his daughter the story of his first, albeit untold and most probably (in his mind) unrequited, love, his wife sat outside of the door, crying silently, wishing that her husband would talk about her that way. But that could never be. Ziva was the only one who would ever hold that special of a place in his heart. And she deserved it, because they loved each other. It had been a silent and one-sided and passionate love, but it was a love greater than anything else in the world.


	3. Captivity

**AN: Here's the next chapter. It's kind of short, but I felt (as well as my beta) that if I made it longer, it would feel drawn out and forced, so it stayed short. Please read and review. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS.**

* * *

The rat was back. It was the same rat, the one that had been scurrying into her cell for the past six months. The rat before this one had died, most likely the prey of some scavenger outside the dusty walls of the prison, and this new rat had rushed in to take its place, fighting off the other rats in the process.

A sigh was audible in the shadowed corner. Ziva David was weaker than the rat, at least in her mind. _At least it can fight, _she thought. _At least it can _die.

Yes, the lucky little bastard could die; it could shrivel up and let its soul escape to whatever lay beyond. She, Ziva David, ex-Mossad officer and NCIS agent, could not die. Or, more accurately, the monster who was taking a break in his tormenting of her, would not let her die.

She watched it from her corner, shrouded in the darkness, purposely staying out of the dusky twilight that streamed through the bars. It was better if the gouges along her limbs were not apparent; she preferred being blind to her many scars.

After fifteen years in this hellhole, Ziva was surprised that she had not yet perished. The last time she had been captured by a terrorist cell operating out of the war-torn Middle East, it had only lasted three months, and she was tiptoeing through the shadowlands by the time NCIS came calling. How she managed to survive fifteen years' worth of torture and rape and general hell escaped her – she hoped she would die soon. Anything would beat this sandy haven for criminals and terrorists, all willing to partake in the abuse of an impertinent Israeli bitch. How delightful.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor leading up to her cage. She distinguished the _thump thump _of the average height, average weight, average-looking captor. If it had been the fat, bearded one, the _thud thud _would have been more obvious, and if the one that looked like a weed was walking towards her, she wouldn't have been able to differentiate noise at all. He was definitely trained- walking like a ghost was not a trait easily acquired.

The door creaked open, allowing her to get a clear view of the terrorist. He strode up to the cell, unlatching the padlock, and hunted the shadows for his captive. She stayed pressed up against the wall, praying for this to not happen, right up until he slammed open the cell door and forcefully ejected her from her safe haven. _Oh well_, she thought, _it was bound to come eventually._

Later, kneeling in the center of a cold cement room, she will wonder why she didn't put up more of a fight. When he barks at her in Arabic to take off her clothes, she will wonder why she agreed to come so easily. As the whip is drawn out of its corded leather bag, she will wonder why she even bothers surviving.

And as the crack is heard, and pure agony comes streaking down onto her back with the force of a thousand men, she will give up. After all, she deserves nothing less.


	4. Spats

**AN: Hi again! Sorry it's been so long, but I actually kind of hate the last chapter - don't ask me about the many idiotic decisions that went into publishing this. Anyways, I'll continue, but just because so many of you have PM'd me about doing so. I hope you like where I am taking this. I'm currently trying to think of ways to resolve the dilemma I got myself stuck in last week. Again, sorry for the long wait, but I hope you enjoy it. Please R&R!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS. **

****Chapter 4: Spats

Gibbs strode into the bullpen, coffee in hand, a glare smeared over his features. Today's upcoming conference on the rising threat in the Middle East was clearly getting on his nerves, as the whole agency had been abuzz with talk of that, rather than focusing on their work.

As he spotted his agents all working quietly at their desks, he felt a little wave of sadness at the loss of his old team. Ziva had died – arguably one of the hardest moments in all of their lives was the moment when her death was announced – and he missed his daughter so much every day. McGee had been promoted to Assistant Director of the agency, and was doing a fine job along with the new director. Tony had been assigned that job the day Vance had retired, due to severe medical problems from Dearing's bomb blast; and was doing a fine job with the agency. Budgets were being usefully spent, and case closure rates were at an all-time high.

Although his old team was gone, they were all doing well in their respective positions. Abby and Ducky had also been treated kindly by the years – he retiring after a long, successful career and now living with Abby, McGee, and the kids; and she remaining the sole forensic scientist of the agency, and a damn good one at that. Gibbs himself was still the same as ever, the coffee-swigging, hard-hitting, criminal-catching ex-Marine of the good ol' days. He could have retired years and years ago, but preferred to stay on and witness the brilliance of his children firsthand.

However, his new probies were less than satisfactory. Ever since the promotion of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, there had been a revolving door of agents taking turns in the infamous bullpen. All wanted a chance to prove themselves to the almighty Gibbs, but none had yet succeeded in matching up to the insurmountable standards set by the team from the past. Legends were still heard around NCIS about the Mossad assassin, her movie-loving, Italian playboy partner, the computer-geek-cum-author, and the gray-haired (I didn't know whether to put something like superman or man of steel. Please help with some noun about an invincible hero, if possible.) who taught them all.

"What are you waiting for," he barked, already irritated at the upcoming events of the day.

Startled, the three agents' heads all snapped up, confusion clouding their faces until recognition took over. Each jumped up, babbling nonsense like, 'yes, sir', 'of course, sir', 'good morning, sir'. The complete crap spouting from each mouth only served to elevate his anxiety, and with a snarl, he stalked out of the bullpen once again.

…...

The discernible stomps of Gibbs halted just outside of Tony's door. Said director's head popped up, startled at the lack of indiscretion displayed by his former boss. Usually, he just marched right in with no regard for Tony's door or privacy.

When the knock eventually came, Tony sat up straight, and removed his glasses hesitantly. What had happened to make the boss so uncharacteristically considerate?

The answer struck him as soon as he uttered a response to Gibbs' request. The conference was today, and everybody (McGee, Gibbs, and himself) was riled up over the event. Leaning back in his chair, he watched patiently as Gibbs barged in, back to his normal self.

"I know this is hard on you," Tony said, looking directly at Gibbs, who was now standing nonchalantly on the other side of the desk. "It's hard on all of us. But you need to stay calm and professional, or you can't come to the conference."

Gibbs stared at Tony with a glare that was at once inquiring, offended, and angry. "I need to stay professional. _I _need to stay professional. The last time we dealt with a growing terrorist cell in the Middle East, you risked the lives of our _entire _team to avenge Ziva – not even save Ziva, just avenge her. Not that I disagreed with you then, and I certainly don't now, but calling me unprofessional is a little bit hypocritical, don't you think."

Tony shrunk back a little, cowering in front of the mighty team leader, who was now red in the face from his little outburst. The director privately felt that he hadn't heard Gibbs say that much in the past year together, let alone in one go. He must feel very strongly about the memories this conference would bring up, not that the rest of them wouldn't feel those just as sharply.

"So if you don't care enough to even feel a little angry this week – and I know you, what you feel, you show, and you're not showing _anything – _don't bother trying to talk to me and McGee if it's not absolute necessary," Gibbs finished in one breath, still glaring vehemently at the infuriated man.

"Never say I don't care," he whispered, rising to his full height, and leaning menacingly towards Gibbs. "_Never. _Do you hear me? I cared more than any of you – more than all of you _put together._ I loved her, and I never got to tell her. This conference is affecting me more than you, so don't you dare say I don't care. I care so much it hurts."

By the time he finished, the two men were standing a foot apart, Tony having walked around his desk, glaring daggers at the other. Since Tony had become director, spats like this were not just uncommon – they were non-existent. The new head of the agency respected his former boss too much to utter such biting words to him or about him, and the MCRT leader was too fond of his "son" to talk about him in such a manner. However, the fiasco fifteen years earlier still grated on all of them, and all were loath to talk about it, lest a feud like this present itself.

"Now," Tony continued, inhaling copious amounts of air and turning his back on Gibbs. "If you would please exit, _Agent _Gibbs, I have work to do that does not concern you. Good day."

Gibbs, understanding that he could say no more to his past agent on the matter, nodded sharply and stomped out of the room. As much as he wanted to believe what he had just heard, Tony had not mentioned Ziva once in the past fifteen years without shutting himself off, and each time distanced himself a little bit more from his previous colleagues. Gibbs firmly believed that after a time, the other man had become apathetic to the subject, preferring not involving himself in the complexities of his emotions, rather than become so tangled in them that he would never be able to remove himself.

_Oh well, _Gibbs thought, returning to his desk and bullpen full of incompetent fools. _I have work to do, and if DiNozzo wants to act like an idiot, that's his problem. He can't run away forever._

…_..._...

McGee walked out of the elevator, shooting a smile at Gibbs on his way up, and jogging up the stairs to the conference room. Although he was no longer stationed in the Navy Yard, instead working wherever he was called – mostly in the DC area – he still came by for major conferences like the one about to occur. He was particularly prickly about this subject matter, and so were his wife, best friend, and father figure, as he was all too aware of.

Fifteen years earlier, the biggest mistake of their lives had been made. Leaving Ziva on that runway, to a path which would lead her straight to Saleem Ulman, was one of his biggest regrets, even if he hadn't been directly involved. After that fateful, nightmarish summer, he also regretted not paying more attention to his friend – if only he had noticed how sad she was, if only he knew what she was thinking, he could have saved her.

He quickly shook himself out of his stupor, as he was now directly outside the conference room. Dwelling on the past would do him no good, something he had figured out after many torturous sessions involving the same activity.

Entering the room, he saw DiNozzo pause in his introductory speech, acknowledge him, and go back to talking about the general topic of the symposium. After scanning the packed room, which was filled with not only people, but monitors broadcasting the event to agents worldwide, he took his seat on the right hand side of the director's chair, and quickly tuned in to Tony's address. With a wry smile, he remembered a time, a good twenty years earlier, when rather than listening to Tony's narcissistic speeches (most on behalf of Gibbs), people would exit the room and/or shut off the microphone.

"As much as any other country in the world, America has been active in the war on terrorism and will continue to do so in a manner that will reflect positively on both the government and the American people. The Navy, and NCIS particularly, have both been instrumental in this ongoing fight, and I am confident in our abilities to put an end to the horror that is terrorism. It is my fondest hope that one day our children can live in a world without terror, without the threat of a bomb dropping on them, without the fear that someone could take their entire lives in an instant with no provoking on their part. I wish to help in the creation of a society where one can live in peace, and not have to fear. To quote former president George Bush: The fight against terror goes on, but...America has sent an unmistakable message: No matter how long it takes, justice will be done. We will fight, and we will win. With no regard for how hard we have to work, or how long, or how much, we will wage war on those who would terrify us, and we will win. Thank you, and let us begin this conference on the rising threat in the Middle East."

A loud applause sprung up as Tony sat down, McGee clapping heartily along with the rest of the agency. As he looked around, one agent was very clearly not clapping. Instead, Gibbs, slouching inconspicuously in the corner, was steadfastly glaring at Tony, and not moving a muscle. It came as a shock that Gibbs was here, first off, as he usually skipped any and all official business meetings, and secondly, that he wasn't clapping for Tony. The ex-Marine was always seen wholeheartedly cheering on his "children" at whatever function they were talking at, and the lack of a fatherly manner surprised McGee. He shrugged it off, making a mental note to ask Tony later.

After receiving his cue from Tony, the Assistant Director stepped up to the podium, riffling through a collection of papers: a threat assessment, reports from field agents stationed near the cell, an overview of the conference from Tony. Choosing his speech on the terrorists, he cleared his throat and began.

"For fifteen years now, reports of an unnamed yet prosperous terrorist cell in the Middle East have troubled the navy. They have committed heinous crimes against not only members of the Navy, but against the American public and many other innocent citizens of other countries. As a specific target of theirs, NCIS has suffered debilitating losses. No matter how many strong agents set after them, only harm crosses their paths. We have lost so many wonderful people because of their belief that their actions are dictated by God, and therefore cannot be wrong in any manner. The reason why this group wishes to destroy NCIS in particular continues to evade us, but I am certain that with all the hard work of everyone present today, we will put an end to these terrorists. Thank you."


End file.
